<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>His Hymn by qjuiq</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427873">His Hymn</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/qjuiq/pseuds/qjuiq'>qjuiq</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - College/University, Boss/Employee Relationship, Clubbing, F/M, Partners to Lovers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:35:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24427873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/qjuiq/pseuds/qjuiq</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As a college student trying to get by, your nights were spent making music for the hottest club in New York. The money was good, the gig was easy, and your boss… Let’s just say your boss was an added bonus.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You powdered your nose one last time before putting your makeup back into your bag. You stuff all your belongings into your work bag, tucking it into your locker near the back wall. Another night of doing what you do best, but you weren’t as thrilled as usual. Your heartbeat a little slower, the adrenaline did not flow through your veins, and you were ready to get this over with in contrast to your usual excitement. </p><p>Looks like tonight was just one of those nights where you’d play more songs than actually mix. Perhaps the finals that were coming up made you less thrilled to be here this night, but the crowd wouldn’t girate without the right beats. </p><p>You loved being the disc jockey at The Renegade. Being one of Manhattan’s hottest clubs, the tips were good, you got to play your original mixes along with your playlists, and your boss… Well, you appreciated the eye candy, but he was a kind and forgiving boss, too. He always cut you some slack when you were a few minutes late, or there had been nights where when you were so sick you couldn’t move, he was understanding and found a back up for the night. You appreciated his generosity, which is why you wanted to do your best with your mixes and be enthusiastic about your job. </p><p>You were self-conscious about anyone knowing of your employment at The Renegade, so you did your best to cover your image; you made music because you had a passion for it, not because you want to have concerts or waves of followers someday. You looked in the mirror one last time, adjusting your wig and fixing your outfit. </p><p>Stepping out of the break room you walk down the hall. You pass your boss’ office, thankful that the door is closed. He was probably waiting for you by the stage, as usual, waiting to give you your pre-shift spiel. </p><p>You come out from under the long velvet curtains separating the hallway to the back of your stage. The heavy bass of the large speakers throbbed you to your core, your skeleton almost rattling from being so close to the behemoth like boxes. Your cheeks puffed up as you held in a yawn, walking towards the stairs. You smile at the figure next to the first step. Blue eyes meet yours, their irises illuminated under the neon strobe lights. You swallowed, not allowing yourself to get lost in them.</p><p>“Alright, tonight is more of an 80’s night. Do you have a few mixes for those?” Steve looks between you and the crowd. You both could hear the current DJ announce it was time to pass the mic for the night. Steve preferred you up there more than any other DJ, you brought in the most club-goers and whenever you were up so were the bar drinks being tended. </p><p>“I do have some Thompson Twins and Queen on my playlist,” You wink at him. “Or were you looking more for some Luther Vandross and Keith Sweat, because that can be arranged.” You threw your faux hair over your shoulder, not noticing his gaze follow your down your neck. </p><p>He understood your reasoning behind wearing a wig and makeup to the stage, though he wished you didn’t mind people knowing who you were. You had the potential to be a huge DJ if you wanted to, but Steve respected that you wanted more out of life than to forever perform in the dark clubs of New York. Your natural look had caught his attention during your interview and since then, he always appreciated you letting that wall down when the show was over and the club was closed. </p><p>“That’ll do just fine,” Smiling, Steve pats your back, his large hand almost covering your shoulder blades. </p><p>You didn’t expect the contact to send a shiver down your spine. You shy away quickly, clearing your throat. “Good, now let’s give the crowd just that,” You step out of his touch, the warmth on your back momentarily missed. </p><p>You walk up the stairs of the stage, the crowd buzzing already and rowdy for you. You grab the mic from the side of the table and plug your phone into the speaker auxiliary cord. “Good evening, New York!” You shout into the microphone, driving the people wild. They all knew who you were. </p><p>You may have been in a stoop before your show, but feeling the energy of the club, having everyone cheer to have you mix the music tonight, that all swept your worries away and allowed you to slip into your zone. You were the forever sung hymn of The Renegade, and DJ Muse was here for the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After your shift, you stop by to collect payment before going home.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Another night of mixing and playing, done. The club was closed for the night, only a few hours before sunrise. You sighed as you took off your wig in the dressing room, ruffling with your fingers your real hair. You combed through your scalp a few times while looking in the mirror, seeing if the wig had left any imprints. You were also eager to wipe this muck off your face. You caked your makeup heavily, purposely hiding your natural face from the audience. You knew your gig was what made you good money, but for future job prospects and for your name’s sake, you didn’t want anyone to know you were DJ Muse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You changed from your stage outfit into an oversized sweatshirt, leggings, and fuzzy socks with slides. You took your makeup wipes and began to smooth them over your face, wiping away the grime of foundation mixed with perspiration. You did enjoy wearing makeup, but the amount you put on to make yourself unrecognizable was atrocious, in your opinion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You threw the wipes away, deciding to just moisturize your face. You rub some cream over your face, patting your cheeks as the last touch. You smile, able to recognize the reflection staring back at you. You shove your wig and makeup bag into your duffle, slinging the sack across your body. Closing the door behind you, you walk down the hall to your boss’s office, tapping lightly on his open door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve leaned over his laptop, typing away at his spreadsheets. He counted all the cash from this evening from cover charges to bar profit and tips, and had divided up the bills to what he owed everyone. He heard a slight knock on his door, looking up at you. He closes his laptop, sliding it to the side as he motions for you to come in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did a great job out there tonight,” Steve smiles as you plop into the box cushion armchair in front of his desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All I did was what you asked,” You grin, letting your bag fall to the floor. You drape your legs over the armrest, leaning back against the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve’s eyes flick between your legs dangling from the chair and back to your face. You seem to not have not noticed, thankfully. “It’s not easy to remix the eighties, as great as they were.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were? I think you mean still is,” You tsk, mirth in your eyes. “Nobody can turn down Whitney Houston or Michael Jackson, I know I can’t.” You laugh, exaggerating the roll of your eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never took you as an eighties lover.” He chuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love all good music, if I can feel the beat rather than just listen to it, I will like it.” You smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of eighties, how old are you anyways? You’re not in your thirties, are you?” Steve teases, knowing very well you were in your early to mid twenties. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not old enough for a mid-life crisis quite yet, if that’s what you’re asking.” You wink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not at all what I was asking.” Steve almost snorts, almost bellowing at your comment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure? Are you looking for someone to partake in your midlife crisis with you, Mr. Rogers?” You try not to laugh as you continue to jest with him. It was his turn to roll his eyes, making you giggle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because if you are, I would not turn you down. I could always use a good soul-searching in the middle of the spring.” You egg it on one last time, chuckling. “Who knows, maybe with my pay from tonight I'll buy the Mustang everyone buys when finding themselves.” You hold your hand out, wiggling your eyebrows at Steve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No missing a beat with you,” He sighs, opening his desk drawer. Steve finds the envelope with your name on it, sliding it towards you atop the desk. “You drew in quite the crowd tonight.” He leans back in his chair, staring at you under his eyelashes with his hands clasped behind his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes spend a fraction of a second roaming over the curves hidden under his sleeves, his biceps bulging as he sits in front of you. Swallowing, you look away from him quickly, not wanting him to sense your ogling. You peek inside the envelope, the stack of fives and ones a bit thicker than usual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh… wow. Yeah, this is a lot better than usual.” You tuck the envelopes deep into your bag, beneath your clothes and inside your makeup bag. You had to straighten out your thoughts, already brainstorming what bills you would apply this money towards. “Anyone that would rob me would think I’m a stripper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s an ATM not far from here, I think you’ll be just fine.” Steve tries not to stutter over his words, keeping the imagery of you in stripper attire at bay. He wondered how you were so quick with your quips, he didn’t want to bellow out like a fool but he thought you were hilarious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re right, better walk with my hand in my pocket, make it look like I’m packing,” You laugh, getting up from the chair. You loop your duffle over your shoulder, waving to Steve as you walk through his door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need a ride home?” Steve offers, as he does every time you leave his office for the night. He knew you were able to take care of yourself, but the prospect of some rando messing with you in the dark, early morning streets of New York never sat well with him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. I asked Bucky to give me a ride tonight, I’m way too tired to make it home myself,” You yawn. Speaking of the devil, your phone buzzes in your bag, the familiar ringer assigned to a mentioned brunette. “My chariot awaits,” You pull your phone out, looking down at it as you leave his office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve sighs, running his fingers through his hair. Why did he always offer to drive you home? He never offered a ride to his other employees, not even Natasha who was the only other woman in his staff. The small realization perplexed him, he shook his head, ridding himself of those wandering thoughts. You were his club’s favorite disc jockey, that’s all you should stay to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-----</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for the ride, Bucky.” You thank the brunette, hopping off his bike. You hand him his spare helmet, the man tucking it into the side pocket of his motorcycle. You are grateful to have him take you home, though there is a section of your brain asking you if you should have waited for Steve to offer again. You shake of this familiar second thought. It was better that Bucky had taken you home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime.” He smiles at you. You and Bucky were friendly enough, the only real time seeing each other being at work. He was a great security guard, keeping a good crowd control while keeping the energy alive at night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched you walk into your complex’s entrance, the sway of your hips catching his eye even under your large sweatshirt. He shakes his head, scolding himself for looking at you that way. He knew you were off limits (as made clear by the way his boss slash best friend spoke so fondly of you), but he was only making sure you got home safe. At least that’s what he told himself, pulling back into the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The loud revving of his engine as he rode through the early streets woke you up just long enough to be able to get up to your place. The night had been long, due to having errands right before your shift. You usually slept to keep up with the night, however yesterday’s evening activities could have definitely waited if you were going to feel like this coming home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You trudge to your bedroom, the last wave of exhaustion finally sweeping over you. Face planting your bed, you pull your phone out of your pocket, checking your notifications one last time before going to bed. Bills are due soon, homework is due in a few days, and a reminder for a movie you've been waiting for is finally available for streaming. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your messages, none of which are left unread or unanswered. Your thumb hovers over one name in particular, your fatigued mind tempted to let your fingers take the steering wheel. Earlier segments of sitting across the blonde flash through your mind, so lucid you're not sure if you fell asleep already. God, your boss is hot. Did he even ask you to let him know if you got home safe? An unwarranted check in could be seen as flirtatious, and that wasn't what you wanted. Tired texting Mr. Rogers was not a good idea. You groan, tossing your phone across the room before you allow yourself the mistake. You could not straddle that line. Ever. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I almost did not post this on AO3! I would have left this on tumblr, but ehh I am writing part 2 and I figured why not</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>